


Fear

by Jingletown



Category: EXID (Band), EXO (Band), K-pop, NCT (Band), SEVENTEEN (Band), TXT (Korea Band), 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS, 소녀시대 | Girls' Generation | SNSD, 여자친구 | GFriend (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Horror, I'd only torture the ones I love the most, Not for the faint of heart, One day this will be published and not star my favorite idols, Please don't think that killing and maiming these idols means I don't love them, Please read the author notes in chapter 1 before reading ANYTHING ELSE, Psychological Horror, Reader beware!, Survival Horror, This is blood and guts and darkness lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-04-24 07:13:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19168363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jingletown/pseuds/Jingletown
Summary: A K-Pop horror anthology. Each chapter is a standalone story and none of the stories in this collection are connected. Trigger warnings apply, multiple bands and idols are featured and I take requests.





	1. Author's Note/Disclaimer

**Author’s Note and Disclaimer**

The following AU will consist of unrelated horror stories. The purpose of these stories is to scare, shock, disturb and entertain. There will be dark themes including but not limited to murder, suicide, self-harm, blood, gore, abuse, violence, sexual assault, drug use and torture.

**I will not provide individual trigger warnings for each story so please keep this in mind and read at your own risk.**

I intend to rewrite this in the future (for publication) using original characters. In order to share this with my loyal and supportive followers, I am using idols and posting this as fan fiction. Please be reasonable and understand that I love each one of these idols, that I wish them no ill-will and that all of this is fictional. These idols are simply placeholders until I write OCs for these stories. If you feel that you cannot read idols in these sorts of dark settings and situations, please do not continue.

If you understand that these stories will be dark and unsettling, and that they will star your favorite idols, I sincerely hope you enjoy every word.

Ever since He Who Knows, I’ve wanted to hone my skills as a horror writer and I think that this AU is a perfect opportunity to share what I’ve learned since summer 2017.

I take requests for this AU both here and on my Tumblr page.

**Thank you so much for the continued support, and thank you for reading!**


	2. She's In The Rain

He shouldn’t have done it.

It wasn’t a matter of statistics or probability because Namjoon had done all the calculations himself. He’d run the numbers hundreds of times. The margin for error was almost too small to be calculated. He knew exactly what he was doing, knew exactly how much blood to take, knew exactly when and how to do it, exactly where the stars needed to be in the sky if he ever needed to do it.

But he shouldn’t have done it.

It had nothing to do with the numbers (he’d been checking the numbers for months – the numbers were right, the numbers were solid) and everything to do with ethics, with morals, with that ultra-fine line between right and wrong, with the oh-so-precarious balance of the known universe.

He’d taken almost as many philosophy classes as he had math classes. He knew that the numbers were solid. It was everything else that was questionable.

They’d gotten into all of it together – witchcraft, voodoo, the occult, black magic. It started as a sick fascination (hers, not his) and Namjoon was pretty sure it had begun on Reddit. She’d never been a very good sleeper and more than once (more than twice, more than three times, more than ten times) he’d gotten up to pee in the middle of the night and found that she’d fallen into a rabbit hole. She watched videos about Ouija boards, read articles about spirits, bought books about the afterlife, about reanimation, about hexes and curses and spells and familiars and crystals and the power of the blood moon.

Once she figured out the dark web, she was unstoppable. (Namjoon learned quickly that the allure of the dark web was less about the selection of websites and more about the type of people who frequented the encrypted chat rooms – the people with information she needed were not the type to talk about their experiences, run-ins and know-how on Twitter or Facebook.) Namjoon had always liked horror movies and scary stories so he took an interest. He’d go with her to the library, sit with her while she watched videos, peer over her shoulder while she browsed forums.

She liked it all. Ghost stories, exorcisms, Haitian voodoo, Santerían sacrifices, inexplicable abductions, lights in the sky, potions, ancient artifacts, foreign folklore, necromancy. But she always seemed to come back to witchcraft. It tended to be her go-to topic. And Namjoon supported that. He liked the premise of it, liked the focus on nature, appreciated the female empowerment and the historical implications of it all. So he learned it with her. He read every book after she was done with it. He approached it with a slightly more mathematical perspective. He was especially interested in the spells and potions. He was fascinated by the ingredients, the measurements, the application and so he studied it – every drop, every pinch, every ounce.

But she’d always had her issues. Sometimes, he wondered if her morbid interests were hurting her more than they were helping her. But she swore up and down that they were purely beneficial. Focusing on the world’s darkness helped her bury her own. He wasn’t sure if it was the healthiest approach but if it kept her alive then he didn’t care.

All he really wanted was for them to be together forever.

So Namjoon studied with her. The truth was that he liked it, too. He liked taking concepts from math and science and philosophy and psychology and applying them to the occult, to the supernatural, to the inexplicable.

She was brilliant and he loved that about her.

He loved her.

But deep down, he’d known it was inevitable.

He knew one day he’d have to do it.

The first three times she’d tried, she’d been unsuccessful.

Those first two attempts had been before they met. Once with a razor, once with pills. Namjoon traced her scars with the tips his index and middle finger while they fell asleep. She swore that things were different now, that she would never do it again, but then she did it anyway.

Once more, she failed and Namjoon met her family at the hospital. He cried more than her mother and threw up twice in the bushes outside. He couldn’t cope with it. He knew he’d never be able to handle living without her. She was so much more than a sick obsession with death and destruction and demons. She was more than her scars and transgressions. She was more than the sum of her parts. She was beautiful and gentle and generous and intelligent and profound. But she was tortured and damaged and fearful and tired.

And it was very possible that she wasn’t meant for this world.

He’d held her that last time, laying right there with her in her hospital bed, offering her the world, offering her his entire self if she’d stay with him. She promised that she would, said she’d just made a mistake, begged for forgiveness. But a few months later, high and cuddling on her pool table in her parents’ basement, she admitted that she was more monster than person, that she’d researched spells and rituals and ceremonies that could change her, that could free her, that could free _them_.

But Namjoon didn’t want to die.

Life was dark and dizzy and messy but it was beautiful. He loved pizza and videogames and the ocean and the sounds of kids screaming and laughing when they rode their bikes past his house. He loved his job and loved school and loved his friends and loved _her_.

He didn’t know what he saw in these other worlds, what it was she envied about the monsters she studied, what it was that was causing her so much pain, but he was high, too, so he nodded against her, pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head.

A few nights later, while he was asleep, she sent him some of the spells. Almost all of them involved personal sacrifices and the thought of her missing fingers or chunks of flesh or pints of blood made him sick so he pretended he never got them. But there was one he studied. One he memorized. One he needed to calculate over and over and over again.

They went for a long walk on the beach that evening, holding hands and watching the sunset. She made him promise that he’d love her forever, no matter what, and he easily obliged.

“Promise,” she said, nudging him. “Say it.”

It wasn’t the first time she’d made him promise. It was something she requested when she was feeling low, when she needed reassurance, when she needed a reminder. She’d ask him to promise, to say it, and he’d do so without question or hesitation.

“I promise to love you forever,” he said, squeezing her hand. “No matter what.”

She smiled and he kissed the side of her head. He’d promise a thousand times a day if that was what she wanted. Maybe it would get repetitive or tiresome but if it kept her alive then he didn’t care.

All he really wanted was for them to be together forever.

Her fourth time was successful. She’d learned to cut deeper. All of her research had desensitized her to gore. Somewhere along the way, probably somewhere on the dark web, she’d lost her fear of blood.

Namjoon hadn’t.

He’d found her in a whole pool of it but that was the point. He vomited in the hallway, hit his knees, used the doorknob to help himself to his feet. There were two notes on her bed– one for him and one for her parents – but the cops were only meant to find one.

They’d never find her finger.

She’d already prepared it for him, something that made Namjoon retch whenever he thought of it. She’d severed it, made sure it would suffice, then wrapped it. She even managed to get exactly one ounce of blood into an old water bottle. He found the finger in her hand and stuffed it in his pocket, shoving the bottle into his coat and arranging her body carefully, quick to follow the instructions she’d left for him to the letter.

The police interrogated him for 5 hours and at no point did he stop shaking.

He knew he had to act fast, had to get everything done before she was buried, had to perform the ritual before she was in the ground or else everything would have been for naught.

But he shouldn’t have done it.

He shouldn’t have respected her wishes.

He should have just let her rest.

But he’d love her forever. No matter what.

And so he did it what she asked.

Everything she’d done for him? Namjoon figured this was the least he could do.

He collected the other ingredients (she’d told him where to find everything) and ran all of the numbers again. He needed it to be exact. He needed everything to be perfect or else it wouldn’t work.

Until then, Namjoon had never been entirely sure he’d believed in any of it.

But sitting there at the edge of the woods, right where the trees ran into the sand and the sand ran into the ocean, burying and mixing and crying and gagging, he knew that he did.

He knew it would work.

He had timed it to the second.

It was the night before her service. He’d stalled her parents as long as he could. He felt guilty about that but he knew it wouldn’t matter for long. They’d forget all about him in a couple of weeks. He was sitting in the mud, letting the rain pour down onto his slumped body, and staring at the ocean.

That beach had been their Xanadu. It’s where they’d had their first date, their first deep talk, their first kiss. They’d parked his truck illegally on the sand once and lost their virginities to each other under a grey and gloomy sky. They’d laughed afterwards, delighted by the absurdity of the world, and listened to fat rain drops land on the roof.

Tears streamed down his face but with how hard it was raining, it was impossible to tell any of it apart. He shivered from the cold, from fear, from grief. He dry-heaved, his stomach completely empty. There was nothing left to throw up.

He checked his watch.

Just a few more minutes.

He could still smell the blood from her bedroom floor, the decay of her severed finger, the acidic stench of the vinegar and the mold from the tree bark.

Thunder crashed in the distance, a flash of lightning illuminating both the forest and the beach, and Namjoon whimpered. He heard a screech from behind him, from deeper in the woods.

The screech.

The noise he’d been waiting for.

 _Her_.

His head dropped. He hadn’t known it was possible to tremble so violently.

He didn’t even know how to pronounce the name of the god to whom he’d made the ultimate sacrifice.

He just knew he had to believe, had to succumb to blind faith like a little kid at Sunday school.

If this was going to work, he had to be willing to give himself over completely

He wrapped his arms around his own body and squeezed, pretending it was her, pretending she was holding him, pretending she was with him, pretending things would ever be the same.

Another crash of thunder. Another burst of light.

He hugged himself tighter.

He’d miss the beach. He’d miss his parents. He’d miss nachos and beer and soccer and the regulars at the restaurant and dogs and long drives.

He’d miss being alive.

But he missed her more.

Another screech. He threw his head back and sobbed, tears and rain falling into his eyes and mouth.

Why’d it have to be like this?

Why’d she have to do this?

Why’d she have to make _him_ do this?

But he’d promised he’d love her forever.

No matter what.

The screeching grew louder. He heard branches breaking, twigs snapping, ragged breathing. If everything had gone according to plan, if all of his numbers had been correct, she no longer felt any pain. She wasn’t tired or afraid. She was powerful, immortal, incomprehensibly strong.

Would she recognize him?

Would she know who was sitting on the ground?

Would she know he was waiting for her?

He squeezed himself as tightly as he could, trying to make the shaking stop.

 _Screeching_.

She was sprinting now, running to him, demolishing anything in her path.

She knew it was him because she loved him as much as he’d always loved her. That was what he told himself. He said it over and over again in his head, bracing himself, trying to prepare.

Namjoon wondered how much it would hurt.

When the sounds of running and screaming were replaced with slow footsteps and cautious panting, Namjoon knew she’d found him.

But he didn’t have the guts to turn and face her.

He couldn’t look at her like this. He couldn’t face what he’d done.

He wanted to remember her the way he’d always known her – beautiful and vibrant, laughing with her whole body, blowing the hair out of her face, mouthing along as she devoured book after book, talking in her sleep, pulling him down into a kiss and then shoving him away with a sly grin.

Because horns and talons and blood and exposed bone? That wasn’t her. It couldn’t be.

Namjoon was empty. There was nothing left for him to retch, no tears left for him to cry, no words left to be screamed hoarsely into the night sky.

If there was nothing left anyway, Namjoon just wanted to remember her as she was _then_ , not as she was now.

She got closer and he squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to see.

One step at a time, she sniffed and chittered like an animal, inching closer and closer until she was close enough for him to feel her breath on his cheek. It was sour, hot against his skin, the pouring, freezing rain not nearly enough to mask it.

He whimpered again, wept, clenched his teeth and his fists.

“I promise to love you forever,” he sobbed. “No matter what.”

She screeched again, howled. It was louder than the thunder, more powerful than the lightning.

He’d turned the love of his life into a monster, an abomination, and he didn’t care.

Even now, he had no regrets.

He’d rather have her like this than not at all.

She wrapped what used to be her fingers around his throat and squeezed.

Namjoon wasn’t sure which hurt more – the way her claws sliced through the skin of his neck or the sensation of being strangled. They both paled in comparison to how it felt to find her body three days before.

Had he waited too long? Was she too far gone? Did she remember him? Was she in there?

His vision began to spot. Involuntarily, his body fought hard against her, his lizard brain springing to life and activating a fight-or-flight response he didn’t know he still had. He pounded his fists against her, gasping and choking and kicking his trembling legs.

She roared, seizing his entire body into her deformed hands, and threw him across the beach.

He landed in wet sand, gagging and wheezing. When he found his voice, he screamed her name. The rain came down harder, obstructing his view of the woods, but he knew she was there. She was in the trees. She was in the rain. She was still in _him_ and he wasn’t leaving without her.

They were in this together. _They_ were in the trees. _They_ were in the rain.

They’d never be apart again.

He screamed again, as loud as he could, and in the time it took for lightning to flash, she was on top of him.

She knocked him to the ground, landing squarely on his chest, and Namjoon was forced to look at her – rotting, winged, bleeding, grotesque. His weak stomach churned to look at her. He shrieked and sobbed, tried to fight her off because his body’s primal urge to survive was stronger than his fear, but she was so much stronger now.

She roared, sounding a thousand-times more monster than human, and Namjoon cried. The entirety of their two years together flashed before his eyes. Every date, every kiss, every meal, every laugh. It flooded his senses, making him dizzy. He felt drunk. He tried to leave his body, tried to spare himself the pain, but she cocked her arms back like two shotguns and plunged her claws deep into his chest.

He tried to scream but blood flooded his lungs and throat.

Her talons squeezed and twisted his insides and the pain he felt was so great that he wasn’t fully able to register it. Tears kept coming. His blood soaked the sand. He tried to wrangle free but she had him pinned. With all the blood he’d already lost, he had no strength in any of his limbs. He sobbed softly, silently begging her to stop, wishing for it to be over, wishing he hadn’t honored her wishes.

He’d been wrong. Somewhere along the way, he’d gotten something wrong. Maybe it was a miscalculation, or maybe he’d simply put his faith in the wrong kind of god.

Maybe he’d never know.

He started to fade. It was hard to breathe. He was losing feeling in his arms and legs, the pain in his abdomen replaced with a faint burning sensation.

This was it. The end of them. The end of _him_.

But just as he was about to shut his eyes, just as he was about to give up and accept that he’d failed, she leaned into him. She dropped so that her chest and forehead were pressed flush against his. Her breath was hot and stale, her body heavy. But their eyes met and Namjoon saw it.

He saw _her_.

He saw her showing up at his door on Valentine’s Day with pizza and roses because he said he’d never had a Valentine before. He saw her waking up in the middle of the night with sleepy eyes, kissing his cheek and resting her head against his shoulder as she fell back asleep. He saw her singing in the car, laughing on their favorite roller coaster, playing XBOX in his living room with messy hair.

He saw her.

She was in there.

And suddenly, Namjoon understood.

She was finally as dark and as powerful and as dangerous as she’d always felt.

She was finally safe from all of the pain and fear that plagued her.

She was finally free.

He gasped and choked when her talons pierced his heart.

Seconds away now. He could feel it.

He was almost empty.

He mustered up all of his remaining strength, all of the energy and fight he had left in his entire broken body, to utter the nine words she always needed most.

“I promise to love you forever. _No matter what_.”

It was a dying, gurgling plea, the promise of a dead man, the last words he’d ever speak. Blood spilled from the corners of his mouth. The pain was gone now, the pain he’d felt in his body and the pain he’d felt in his heart.

He could see in her eyes, dark and wild, that she’d understood him and this time, when she threw her head back and howled, he knew that it was her way of reciprocating.

She loved him, too. She’d love him forever. No matter what.

And she punctuated this sentiment by ripping out his heart.

She’d go back into the woods, bury it, and he’d be reborn just like her. They’d be the same. She held it tightly in her hands, mutated and raw, and watched as it stopped beating.

Namjoon stopped moving.

The rain stopped falling.

He died there on the beach where they’d had their first date, their first deep talk, their first kiss and their first time, and after she leaned in again to press her forehead softly to his, she scurried back towards the tree line to make quick work of his carcass.

Everything he’d ever known was gone but his life with her was just beginning.

He’d made good on his promise.

He’d helped defile her human body, helped cover up her dark choice, sacrificed himself and died in agony but it kept her alive so he didn’t care.

All he really wanted was for them to be together forever.

And now, at long last, they would be.


	3. The Statue of Black Horse Mountain

Doyoung used to love to ski.

Back when he was healthy and able-bodied and strong, he loved to ski.

That was the main reason he agreed to the trip up Black Horse Mountain. He wanted to spend time with his friends (Taeil and Johnny more than Jaehyun, Mark, Yuta or Haechan) but mostly, he wanted to ski. And he thought some nature would do him good. The wind in his face, the crunch of the snow beneath his boots, the sting of the wind on the tops of his cheeks. Back home, he was overworked, underpaid and usually stressed to the point of physical sickness.

He knew this weekend was exactly what he needed.

The seven of them had rented a house up in the mountains, a cross between a cabin and a timeshare. It was a little expensive but they were seven guys in their early twenties and very few of them had any real responsibilities or bills. (Doyoung was one of those unlucky few but he justified it by telling himself that he deserved to splurge every now and again, especially since all he ever did was work.) It would be a weekend of bros, beer and hitting the slopes, probably peppered with vomiting and debauchery.

Doyoung was more excited about the skiing than he was about the potential for fraternal bonding but he kept that to himself.

Besides, he genuinely liked Johnny and Taeil. Johnny was intelligent and sensitive which were two traits Doyoung longed for in _all_ his friends but since intelligence and sensitivity weren’t two things highly valued by straight men, Doyoung kept that to himself, too. And Taeil? Taeil just cracked Doyoung up. He was witty, dry, sarcastic and the only member that actually made him laugh.

Haechan and Yuta were alright but they wouldn’t have been Doyoung’s first, second, third or fourth choices. Haechan was something of a yes-man, someone who went along with what everyone else was doing rather than ever put forth an idea or opinion of his own and Yuta was too much of a wildcard. Haechan was the type to sit idly in the background while the room erupted in chaos, nodding because he didn’t have anything of value to say, and Yuta was the type to show up with a bottle of expensive vodka and several tabs of acid, usually the _reason_ the room had erupted in chaos.

Jaehyun and Mark were just unpleasant. They were frat boys, through-and-through. Jaehyun was obsessed with being viewed as the alpha male, the tough guy of the group and Mark was just obnoxious. Doyoung actually had no idea how he’d been saddled with them but he went to great lengths to never be alone with either. Johnny (who’d orchestrated the whole trip) knew about Doyoung’s feelings towards his friends and swore up and down that the house was big enough for them to stay out of each other’s hair all weekend.

Doyoung and Taeil drove up together because they lived in the same part of town and Doyoung wanted to save gas. Taeil had a hatchback which made it easy to pack their bags and ski gear and they spent the whole ride listening to 90s grunge and talking shit about Mark. (Taeil, it seemed, liked Jaehyun enough but couldn’t _stand_ Mark, something that made Doyoung like him even more.)

By the time they arrived (it was almost a four-hour drive), they were hungry and tired and agitated but the sight of their home for the long weekend, three-stories of rustic luxury shining stylishly against the backdrop of the mountain, reenergized them.

“Now _these_ are some sick digs,” Taeil said, staring up in awe at the structure that seemed more like a small hotel than a cabin in the mountains. “I can’t believe Johnny made this happen.”

Doyoung whistled as he got out of the car, hands on his hips.

“This is way nicer than he said. Here I was thinking we’d have to rough it.”

Taeil snorted.

“Imagine any of those guys roughing it,” he said. “Jaehyun wouldn’t last two minutes in the wild.”

It took three trips to unload the car, making Doyoung wonder if they’d packed too much for three days and four nights, but Taeil was unfazed.

On the last trip, after Taeil had slammed the trunk shut and taken the last of the bags and skiis, Doyoung pointed at the ground.

“Whose footprints are these?” he asked. They seemed to go in a circle around the house but they were too big to be either of theirs.

Taeil just shrugged.

“Probably the guy Johnny rented the house from,” he suggested lightly. “Maybe doing a last-minute lap around. If I were him, I would have taken a shit ton of pictures in case we trash the place.”

“Maybe,” said Doyoung.

“Hey, can we get inside?” Taeil asked. “I’m freezing my balls off over here.”

They didn’t bother unpacking, just took a quick look around and claimed their respective rooms. Arriving first had been a strategic decision – it allowed them to pick the rooms they wanted before the other guys showed up after work – and a good one at that. There were five rooms total, three of them with two twin beds apiece and two of them with solo queen beds.

“This was a fantastic idea,” Taeil announced as he flopped backwards onto his temporary mattress. “My own room? Now _that’s_ a vacation. I would have killed myself if I had to room with Yuta or Mark.”

“What about Jaehyun?” Doyoung teased.

“At least he’s quiet at night,” Taeil said, tucking his arms behind his head. “Yuta talks in his sleep and Mark chats all night like it’s a damn sleepover. I was stuck with him during the Bros Vegas Trip of 2017. Never again, Doyoung. Seriously.”

While Taeil sat in the kitchen and made a list of groceries they probably should have purchased ahead of time, Doyoung took the opportunity to take a long, hot shower in a bathroom ten times nicer than his at home. His apartment was shitty, in need of dozens of repairs and mind-bogglingly overpriced. Doyoung was maybe the one guy in the group with actual responsibilities, both financial and personal, and so splurging on the trip had been a hard decision. But with hot water streaming down his back, the work of a fancy showerhead with 7-speeds, tucked comfortably inside an upscale condo on his favorite resort mountain, Doyoung had absolutely no regrets.

He dried off, changed into an old college t-shirt and sweats, then scurried down the stairs to help Taeil with the list. (As healthy as he ate, Taeil was likely to live forever, but Doyoung didn’t want kale or quinoa on this trip – he wanted pizza bagels and hot wings and lots and lots of whiskey.)

He smelled blood before he saw it.

Doyoung only made it to the landing before he saw him.

He couldn’t see Taeil yet. No, the man straddling him was too big. Impossibly large, others would go on to say. Easily 6’7 or 6’8 with shoulders so broad that Doyoung thought he might have to turn sideways to get through doors.

_Doors. The front door. The back door. The side door. Hey, how’d he get in?_

But the man, big as he was, wasn’t simply _sitting_ on Taeil. He wasn’t just pinning him to the ground. He wasn’t still. He was moving. Quick, jerky, violent movements that Doyoung didn’t understand. It was like the wire that connected his brain and eyes had been snipped. He was seeing something but he couldn’t comprehend what.

Quick, jerky movements.

There was something in his hands.

Why were his hands covered in blood?

Quick, jerky movements.

Stabbing.

He was stabbing him.

He was stabbing Taeil.

Over and over and over again.

The man, the impossibly large man with what now appeared to be wielding a bloody, 7-inch hunting knife, brought his hands down again and again, slicing easily through Taeil’s neck and chest, sending spatters of blood all over the walls, the curtains, the ceilings and himself. The only sound in the entire condo, the only sound on the entire mountain, the only sound in the entire _world_ was the sound of the blade slicing and tearing Taeil’s flesh.

When he brought his arms up higher to do even more damage to his friend’s abdomen, Doyoung could see Taeil.

He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t screaming. He wasn’t fighting back.

He was completely limp. His head had fallen motionlessly to one side, his chin flopped against his shoulder, his arms sprawled at his sides.

His eyes were open, pointed helplessly, pleadingly at Doyoung, but Taeil couldn’t see him.

Doyoung could see Taeil.

Doyoung could see Taeil’s _body_.

He was in a pool of blood larger than anything Doyoung had ever seen. It was entire ocean’s worth of blood.

_Where had he kept it all?_

And just like that, the impossibly large man… stopped.

He stopped stabbing. His body went still. He appeared to be admiring his handiwork.

He took a breath, then stood, blood dripping from the knife in his hands as well as his hands themselves.

He turned, then the impossibly large man, dripping blood and still holding the knife he’d used to gut Moon Taeil, locked eyes with Doyoung.

Doyoung wanted to run. He wanted to scream until he ruptured his throat. He wanted to sob and fight and flail and flee for his life. But Doyoung wasn’t able to move.

This wasn’t a case of fight, flight or freeze. He wasn’t simply too scared to run away. He hadn’t drawn a blank. He’d already made a plan of where to run, how to escape, where to drive, how to call for help.

But Doyoung couldn’t move.

It was something that would go on to haunt him, to define him, something he’d have to explain hundreds if not thousands of times, something that no other human on earth would ever understand.

Doyoung couldn’t move.

His limbs had been seized, injected with quick-dry concrete. They locked in the position they’d been in when he first came down the stairs – his feet planted shoulder’s length apart, one arm at his side, one hand on the railing.

He tried with all his might, fought viciously against his body, kicked and screamed and ripped the railing right from the wall but his body wouldn’t move. It was a physical sensation he’d never heard of let alone experienced. It seemed to start as his feet and work its way up, the feeling that he was being filled with thick, wet cement, the indescribable heaviness, the shooting pain in his bones, the unbearable tightness of all his muscles.

Within seconds, Doyoung went from a living, breathing human to a statue, the tortured shell of a man who used to be flesh and bone.

The impossibly large man was getting closer, his steps purposefully small and slow. Doyoung twisted and jerked and flailed but nothing moved, not one ligament, not one joint, not a single hair on his body. The impossibly large man had no way of knowing how hard Doyoung was fighting, how hard he was _thrashing_ because on the outside, Doyoung hadn’t budged.

Before Doyoung could process anything else, the impossibly large man was climbing the stairs.

He opened his mouth to scream, his jaw miraculously unhinging (maybe the cement that was filling his skeleton hadn’t quite made it to his skull yet) and hanging lifelessly from his face. He screamed, shrieked, roared, let loose the most inhuman, ungodly, tortured scream there ever was… but no sound came out.

The impossibly large man was wearing ski goggles, orange and smeared with blood. That would go on to be one of his signatures. They covered most of his face. He had a long, bushy beard that was matted with Taeil’s blood and stuck with flecks of something tan and pink.

_Taeil’s flesh. Don’t lie to yourself. You know what it is. Skin, sinew, probably parts of his organs. Face it, Doyoung. Just face it._

It was in that moment that Doyoung first accepted the fact that he was going to die.

His eyeballs still worked but just barely. He glanced down at the knife, trying to prepare his body for the pain that would come with being stabbed. How badly would it hurt? Would he go into shock? Would he bleed out slowly? Would that measly knife even be able to pierce solid stone?

He braced himself for the pain but none ever came.

The impossibly large man just stared at him for another few seconds before slowly descending the stairs, walking backwards until he hit the carpet of the living room, then continued out the door as though he’d never been there at all.

But he had been there.

And now, Doyoung was able to see everything.

The overturned lamp and coffee table. The bloody footprints. The way the curtains had been pulled off one window in the struggle. The crimson stains across the white walls. Taeil’s body, lifeless, broken, split open, eviscerated.

His friend’s corpse. The way unidentifiable guts spilled out of his belly, pink and mangled. The way none of his limbs seemed to be facing the right way. The way his dark eyes stared back at him.

_Where were you, Doyoung? Where were you? Why didn’t you hear me? Why didn’t you help me?_

Doyoung tried to scream again.

Nothing came out.

He tried to close his jaw but it had been seized, too.

It was becoming too hard to move his eyes. They were starting to freeze, starting to become part of the statue.

He took a deep breath, tried to yell for help, tried to yell for Taeil to wake up, but his vocal cords had been turned to stone, too.

He was forced to stare at Taeil’s mangled body for two-and-a-half hours.

He tried to close his eyes, tried to look away, tried anything he could to free himself but Doyoung was trapped.

He was trapped inside of his own body and Taeil was dead.

It was almost midnight when the others arrived.

Doyoung was in a precarious state by that point. Shock had long since set in and his muscles had begun to ache terribly. If he was trembling from fear or from the stress of the tension in his limbs, it was impossible to tell. Though his hair had finally dried, the first hour involved cold drops of water intermittently dripping down his back. His stomach churned nonstop since the impossibly large man had left, making him want to dry-heave and gag.

The smell of blood only ever got stronger.

He heard Mark before anyone else.

The boys were laughing, jovial, excited. Doyoung had left his body, and more-or-less left his brain, but when he heard the others coming, his heart began to race. His stomach was thick with acidic nausea. His throat was dry like sand. He tried even harder to free himself of the prison his body had created but his desperate efforts were met with absolute stillness.

He wanted to scream for them, wanted to warn them, wanted to keep them from seeing what he’d spent two-and-a-half hours _memorizing_.

But he couldn’t.

Johnny entered first.

_Not Johnny. Please don’t look. Johnny, please. Go back outside. Send someone else in. Just not you._

“I bet you guys claimed the good bedrooms!” he announced happily. He turned the corner from the kitchen, stepping innocently into the living room.

He saw Doyoung first and his face dropped. He didn’t yet know _what_ was wrong but Johnny was intuitive enough to figure out _something_ was wrong. Why was Doyoung standing on the stairs? Why was his face so twisted, his mouth hanging open? What was he staring at? And what was that smell?

Doyoung pleaded with him.

_Johnny, don’t turn around. Please don’t turn around. Stop the others. Call the cops. Get help._

“Doyoung?” Johnny asked, his voice trembling. “What’s wrong? Why are you–?”

He followed Doyoung’s horrified gaze and turned.

Doyoung wished he could close his eyes, wished so desperately that he didn’t have to watch Johnny discover Taeil’s body, but there it was.

Johnny didn’t scream. He didn’t cry. He just hit the floor, landing on his knees with a soft thud.

Jaehyun and Yuta entered next, followed closely by Mark and Haechan, and then hell broke loose.

To Doyoung, it was all a blur.

Haechan screamed. He instinctually ran to Taeil, shrieking, but Yuta grabbed him and pulled him away from the body. Jaehyun started shaking so badly that he had a hard time dialing 911. Mark started yelling – “What did you do? Doyoung, what the fuck did you do?” – but Johnny stopped him.

“Something’s wrong!” he shouted over the chaos, grabbing Mark’s arms and shaking him until he quieted down and tried to understand. “Something is wrong with Doyoung! He can’t move! He can’t speak! Something is wrong! Call an ambulance!” He put his hand on Doyoung’s face, tried to meet his eyes and said, “We’re going to get help.”

And that was when Doyoung started to cry.

Silent, pathetic sobs. Tears streamed down his face. The harder he cried, the closer he got to making normal, human noises. But they never came. He sounded like a wounded animal, low, guttural cries from the very back of his throat. By that point, Yuta had taken Haechan outside. Jaehyun was sitting on the floor, shaking trembling violently, and Mark had begun talking to himself.

“It’s okay,” Johnny promised. “It’s okay.”

The cops came, red-and-blue lights illuminating the mountain in an absolutely haunting glow of colors. Haechan cried so hard that the paramedics gave him a foil shock blanket. When the police started to photograph Taeil’s body, speaking openly about the trauma done to his organs, Johnny threw up in the kitchen sink. Jaehyun and Mark stood quietly by the staircase while baffled first-responders tried to figure out what was wrong with Doyoung.

It took great effort to get him off the stairs and onto the stretcher.

They spoke about needing to get him to the psych ward as soon as possible, about having never seen anything like this. They knew very little about psychotic hysteria or psychotic paralysis, terms that Doyoung wouldn’t learn until days later, but they tried to be kind with him as they loaded him into the back of the ambulance. Cops tried to hound him for answers (“How did this happen, son? I know you’re scared but you’ve got to talk to us. Who was he? What kind of weapon did he have? Where did he go?”) but they waved them off.

“He _cannot_ talk right now, officer. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

The last thing Doyoung saw before the ambulance door closed was the faces of his friends.

Shock and disgust on Mark and Jaehyun’s, absolute grief on Haechan’s, confusion on Yuta’s and concern on Johnny’s.

It was the last time he’d see them for a while.

Doyoung spent nearly an entire year in the psych ward of St. Justin’s Hospital, though only the first three weeks were spent under 24/7 supervision.

The doctors had never seen anything like it, a case of trauma-induced hysteria so bad that even their best drugs, doctors and therapy couldn’t help Doyoung regain control over his body.

Sixteen days.

Doyoung spent sixteen days unable to move. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t eat. They fed and hydrated him through tubes and IVs. He was the exact opposite of a medical miracle. Hundreds of doctors studied him. Countless articles and reports were written about him, the most famous of which had gone viral and earned him a title he’d never wanted – The Statue of Black Horse Mountain.

The impossibly large man got a nickname, too. He went on to be known as the Black Horse Butcher and after Taeil, he slaughtered six other people, including an eleven-year-old girl, before getting caught.

Doyoung knew all of their names and stories.

And he knew it was his fault.

But what happened to his body and brain was unprecedented. It’s what made his story so compelling. It wasn’t just doctors and psychologists who were interested in him – every major television station in the country wanted a piece of him. True crime TV shows and procedural dramas did episodes about what happened on Black Horse Mountain. Everyone wanted an interview. But once Doyoung was able to speak again, he refused to talk to anyone who wasn’t one his doctors.

He knew his friends blamed him.

He didn’t protect or avenge Taeil. He let him die. He didn’t help catch the Butcher and because of it, six people died. A _kid_ died. He was weak. It was his fault. His friend had been butchered right there in front of him and he’d done nothing to stop it. For two weeks afterwards, he stood silently and wept in front of doctors rather than help the cops catch Taeil’s killer.

It was his fault.

It was his fault.

_It was his fault._

The guilt coupled with the constant, horrific images in his head made it almost impossible to go on and resulted in two suicide attempts while Doyoung was still at the hospital. How was he supposed to live his life when he was responsible for the death of five adults and one sixth-grader? How was he ever supposed to sleep again when he remembered so vividly the way Taeil’s intestines bubbled from his belly like chewing gum? How was he ever going to have a normal life? And what was the point of going on when Taeil couldn’t? When that child was dead? When five innocent people had been slaughtered like sheep?

He was ultimately paired up with an excellent and compassionate psychiatrist named Dr. Kim who was more interested in Doyoung’s health and recovery than the fame and notoriety that came with his story. (But Doyoung couldn’t complain too much about the fame – because of him, St. Justin’s Hospital was in the national spotlight. With all of the corporate business they were suddenly handling, the hospital agreed to treat Doyoung pro bono, which was the only way Doyoung was able to afford a year’s worth of treatment.)

Eleven months of various therapies, long sessions with Dr. Kim and trial-and-error drug combinations and Doyoung was able to leave the hospital. Was he terrified of getting reacclimated with society? Absolutely. He was famous now. There wasn’t a person in the country that hadn’t heard his story. He’d been worried about returning to work and making a living but a collection had been started for him online, though he wasn’t sure who’d been the one to start it. They’d raised enough money for him to live without working for a few months, allowing him to focus on staying healthy.

Doyoung was most worried about the people. Would people approach him on the street to talk about it? Would people recognize him? Did his friends still hate him? He’d written all of them letters as part of his therapy and no one but Johnny had ever written back. There were comments on his Instagram page from Mark and Yuta calling him a coward. On a picture of him and Taeil, Haechan had commented, “It’s your fault he’s dead.”

But those were all from months back, from right after Taeil had died. They were angry and confused and grieving. Was it possible they’d forgiven him since then? Was it possible that they’d moved on? Was it possible that they still loved him?

He had no way of knowing.

He was too afraid to reach out directly, terrified to leave his house for fear of running into them at the food store or at the bank. So for weeks after leaving the hospital, Doyoung stayed home. He bought everything online, had his groceries delivered and looked into getting a job from home. He watched TV but only kids’ shows. For fun, he drew pictures on the backs of takeout menus. For company, he put a birdhouse in his window, hoping that a pigeon or maybe even a blue jay would spend a few minutes with him on his balcony.

And then, one afternoon, just days away from the anniversary of Taeil’s death, Doyoung got a letter in the mail that was marked with familiar handwriting.

It was from Johnny.

 

> **Dear Doyoung,**
> 
> **I know you’ve changed your phone number and deleted your social media and maybe that’s because you don’t want to hear from us but I heard you’ve gotten out of the hospital and I hope you’re doing well. Next week, we’re all getting together at Jaehyun’s house to celebrate Taeil. I want you to be there. Taeil loved you and you loved him. That means you should be there. You** deserve **to be there. There’s gonna be food and beer and we’re going to talk about him and laugh and remember how it used to be. Please come. (But only if you think you can handle it.) It starts at 5 PM and I think it’ll be good for all of us. I miss you and I hope you’re doing okay.**
> 
> **Hope to see you next week, buddy.  
>  Johnny**

Doyoung spent a full day thinking about it. He came at it from every angle, considered every possibility, calculated every variable, thought through every option. Did they really want him there? Did they want him to be a part of celebrating Taeil? Did they miss him? Should he make the trip and visit them? Should he leave the house? Should he take the risk of ever showing his face again?

He considered calling Dr. Kim, his fingers hovering over the button for a long time but navigated to a different tab instead. It wasn’t until he left the hospital that Doyoung realized just how many things you could actually buy online.

He arrived at 5:30 and sat in his car until 6:05.

His hands shook on the steering wheel.

Was he really going to do this?

Through the front window, he could see Yuta and Mark. How much had they changed in a year? How much had _he_?

He took a deep breath before exiting his car, completely and utterly unsure of his decision. It was very possible that he’d regret this for as long as he lived but he still had to try.

He needed the closure.

On trembling legs, he walked across the street, up the front steps and knocked on the door, praying that Johnny was the one to answer it.

But no such luck.

It was Jaehyun. His hair was shorter now, lighter, and the look on his face when he saw Doyoung could only be described as complete surprise.

“Doyoung,” he said.

“Hi, Jaehyun. Long time.”

Jaehyun didn’t have words. He stumbled a half-step back and allowed him to enter but it didn’t seem he was sure about it.

Haechan noticed him first.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he barked.

Johnny, who’d been in the kitchen when Doyoung knocked, emerged, appearing suddenly with two keg cups.

“I invited him,” he said sternly. “He’s our friend.”

“Bullshit,” Yuta said. He was on the couch looking much skinnier than he had a year before. “He’s not my friend. He’s _your_ friend.”

“He was Taeil’s friend,” Johnny bit.

Yuta scoffed.

“Some friend,” he said.

Fear and anxiety seized in Doyoung’s chest, briefly reminding him of the sinking, cement-filled feeling that had lived inside of him for sixteen days. He wanted to double and vomit at the memory but he stayed upright, back straight, chin up. That was what Dr. Kim would have told him to do.

“What happened to Taeil was not Doyoung’s fault.”

“What about what happened to the others, huh?” Yuta exploded. Doyoung hadn’t expected that from him. He hadn’t expected _any_ reaction from him. Yuta had always been high-energy but never highly emotional. “What about Emily Long and Jake Broder and McKenzie Williams and Anne Lopez and Jimmy Isaac and Bryan Lorde?” Doyoung physically recoiled, wincing. Those were the Butcher’s other six victims. So _that_ was what Yuta was mad about. Not about his inability to protect Taeil but about the other people who died while he was busy playing statue. “What about them?”

“Fuck you,” said Johnny.

“Guys, stop!” Mark screamed. “It’s enough!” He looked to Doyoung. “Look what you’ve done! Why’d you have to come anyway? Why couldn’t you just let us grieve in peace?”

“Taeil was my friend,” Doyoung said weakly.

“And how’d you repay him? You just stood there!”

“What the fuck do you know anyway, Mark?” Doyoung snapped, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “What do you know about what happened? Were you there?”

“No, he said. “ _You_ were. And look how much you fucking helped Taeil.”

“Taeil didn’t even _like you_!” Doyoung roared and Mark punched him so hard that Doyoung spun. Johnny was on him in half of a second, pressing his face into the couch and screaming obscenities Doyoung didn’t even think Johnny knew. Haechan was crying. Like that fateful night, Jaehyun was sitting on the floor, the group’s former tough guy, the alpha male, slouched in a crumpled heap, unable to handle any of it.

He was muttering quietly to himself, “Just get out, Doyoung. You did this. You did this to us.”

“Doyoung, are you okay?” Johnny shouted over the noise. “Are you bleeding?”

He wasn’t. He stood, dazed, hand on his aching jaw, and Doyoung decided that he wouldn’t regret this after all. This was what he needed to move on. This would be the moment in his life where he got closure. This would be the day he truly began to heal.

“I loved Taeil,” Doyoung announced after Johnny had pushed Mark into the kitchen to cool off. “He was one of my best friends. I will never be the same after what I saw that night. None of you _saw it_. You saw his body but you didn’t see it. You have no fucking idea what I saw or what I felt or what happened to me in that hospital. How many of you have gotten needles in your spinal cord? How many of you have received round after round of electroshock therapy? How many of you have woken up screaming but still unable to move, screaming to the point that your throat bled?” He shook his head, looked at the floor and said, “Taeil was my friend. You all think you would have sprung into action and saved him, fought the Butcher with your bare hands and then went on living your life. You don’t know shit. You’re all just as weak as I was.”

“Go home, Doyoung,” Yuta said. “Just go.”

“Leave,” Jaehyun said, speaking audibly for the first time. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

“You didn’t even try,” Haechan whispered between sobs. “You didn’t even try to save him. You didn’t even try!”

Haechan had no idea how hard Doyoung had tried. Tears formed in the corners of Doyoung’s eyes when he thought about how hard he’d struggled and strained on that second-floor staircase. They had no idea. They couldn’t even _fathom_ it.

But maybe they’d be able to soon.

“Thanks for inviting me, Johnny,” Doyoung said quietly. “It was nice to see you.”

“Doyoung, wait!” he called. He looked around the room, sneering at the people he’d once considered his best friends and said, “What the fuck is the matter with you people? Aren’t things bad enough?” before chasing Doyoung out the door. “Wait!”

“What?”

“Don’t go,” he said. “They’re assholes and I’m sorry but they’re still grieving. I think if we just–”

“There’s nothing you can say, Johnny,” Doyoung mumbled. “We can’t bring him back.”

“I don’t want to lose two friends because of that night!” Johnny blurted. He pointed inside. “Things aren’t the same with them but me and you used to be close. I love you, Doyoung. I don’t want to lose you.”

Doyoung’s smile was sad but it was genuine.

“I love you, too, Johnny,” he said, then looked away. “But I died on Black Horse mountain.” His sad smile twisted into something sinister. “Haven’t you heard? I’m the Statue now.”

Johnny grimaced.

“You’re so much more than that,” he pleaded, “and you know it.”

“It doesn’t matter now. It’s too late.” Johnny hung his head but Doyoung had prepared for this. He’d considered _every_ variable. And he’d never hurt Johnny. Not after all he’d done for him. Johnny was the only one to respond to his letters. He even visited Doyoung in the hospital not once or twice but three times, once when he was still unable to move or speak. He’d never let Johnny suffer the way he’d suffered. Never. No matter what. “Hey, I hate to ask but can you do me a favor?”

“Anything!” Johnny said hastily. “Doyoung, anything.”

“I need a prescription picked up,” he said. “I use the pharmacy on the other side of town. I’m too embarrassed to use the one close to my apartment. And now I’m a little shaken up and I don’t want to drive all the way there. Could you pick it up for me? And bring it back to my place? I’ll meet you there. We’ll talk and catch up.”

The light seemed to return to Johnny’s eyes.

“Absolutely,” he said. “How about I stop and get us some pizzas, too? We can celebrate Taeil’s life all on our own.”

Doyoung smiled.

“That sounds great. Thank you, Johnny. You’re the best.”

Johnny beamed and slapped Doyoung’s shoulder before hopping into his car and taking off towards the pharmacy. But there was no prescription waiting for him. Doyoung just needed him gone. He needed Johnny as far away from Jaehyun’s house as possible.

He knew firsthand what seeing a friend die right in front of you did to a person.

He couldn’t let Johnny go through that four separate times.

Swallowing hard, he popped the trunk where he once kept his skis and pulled out the assault rifle that had been absurdly easy to purchase online. Why had there been no background check? If they knew he was, no way anyone would have sold him a gun.

It was heavier than he expected.

When he strapped it over his shoulder, Doyoung smiled.

If only the Statue and the Butcher could see him now.

He’d been made a coward twelve months before, all of his choices, all of his power, all of his freedom, all of his autonomy stripped from him. All of his pride, his self-esteem, his friendship, his connections had been taken from him by force. An act of senseless violence executed by a monster had taken everything from him.

He’d been mocked, hated, threatened, ridiculed, experimented on, written about, flayed and exploited and the people who were supposed to protect him at his most vulnerable had turned on him, shunned him, blamed him for the worst night of his life.

And now they sat in Jaehyun’s living room, talking about him, calling him a coward, saying he never cared about Taeil, saying that he never tried.

They all thought they knew exactly how they’d react in a life-or-death situation. They were sure that they’d be war heroes. They knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that they’d spring into action, save their friends and save themselves.

Doyoung’s sick, twisted smile returned as he cocked his weapon, walked across the street, up the stairs and kicked in the front door. Haechan would be the first to scream, he figured, but Mark would be the first to die.

They were so sure that they knew how they’d react and respond if their best friend got murdered right in front of them and now, by God and by the Statue of Black Horse Mountain, by the new Butcher and by the sum of a million bloody parts, they were about to find out.


End file.
